


build my gallows high, baby

by HelenaKey



Series: Persephone's Pomegranate [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Character Study, F/M, Father Figures, Gun Violence, Implied Relationships, Misconceptions About Reality, Perfectionism, Post-2Season, Psychological Torture, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Victor-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 11:56:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5706805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelenaKey/pseuds/HelenaKey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been a fixation. A whim, if you must call it that. Victor would be lying, however, if he said that it was a caprice born out of the moment. He had wanted Barbara from the beginning; since the first time he saw her, trembling like an autumn leaf in Don Falcone’s kitchen, waiting to face the consequences of a series of mistakes that hadn’t been her fault. His feelings towards her back then, thought, had been nowhere near as anodyne as they were now days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	build my gallows high, baby

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, the third part came out! I'm sorry about the delay. This babe was very difficult for me to write, mostly because I'm telling the story through Victor's perspective. It's the first time I do it and I really wanted to crasp his personality right. There are a lot of Headcannons that I and thecrownoftherevour invented in this chapter so, despite everything, it was really fun to work on it too. Hope you guys like it! :)
> 
> P.D: Victor Zsasz owning a Silver Lamborghini is freaking cannon!

There’s something liberating, Victor thought as he stepped into the waiting room, still carrying a hot 9mm Taurus in the right pocket of his jacket, in making a decision on your own, regardless of what other might think about it. A man like him, who had been following orders ever since he first learned how to fire a weapon, could certainly see the appeal in going through life by oneself; in yield in to every desire and not give explanations to any authority. This is, however, a life with no structure, and Victor knew that in the long run living without structure was worse than spending a lifetime under someone else’s thumb. No matter how small, some regulations are necessary for every man’s day to day; without them, the only things that wait for him are incertitude and chaos. This is what Don Falcone had told him many years ago, when he first offered him a place in his family, and even now that his employer had retired and he received orders only from the _Penguin,_ Victor still lived according to these words.

Barbara Kean, who was silently walking beside him, didn’t know a thing about structure; the red stains that Antonio Rivera’s blood had left all over her face were a proof of that. She always followed Victor’s instructions meticulously, with a diligence that almost bordered pleasure, but she wouldn’t take orders from Cobblepot or from the other Zsaszettes, and she didn’t care whether or not a contract was carried out correctly as long as she got to amuse herself. She had no loyalties or principles, as far as he could see, and the only thing that seemed to bind her in any way to the _Penguin’s_ business was a primary instinct of survival. The knowledge that as long as she stood next to them, the GCPD’s Strike Force wouldn’t have the courage to come after her. It didn’t get any more destructured than that. 

Victor had been aware of all these flaws when he first hired her, but he had been able to forgive them under the promise that they wouldn’t affect her performance when the time came to kill off a man. Obviously, that had been too much to ask for. Tonight, Barbara had made a mistake, as she was bound to do sooner or later, and now she was covered in the wrong man’s blood, and he was the one who would have to give up for her against their boss. He wasn’t afraid of the _Penguin,_ and he didn’t fear whatever was waiting in the adjoining room; Cobblepot was far too clever to try to get rid of him, and there was very little with what the mob boss could threaten him. Still, the feeling of defeat lingered in Victor, making him feel conflicted.

In the other side of the room, Barbara took a seat on an old looking chesterfield couch, not so far from the doors that lead to the Chief’s office, and carefully (almost begrudgingly) she pulled out her gun and placed it on top of the coffee table before her. Her black dress was covered in small stains of a reddish brown color. It had been a messy job. Careless. One of those that Victor had done many times in the past, when he was still knew to the business.

She had come with him and the other girls in the role of a silent vigilant, and Victor hadn’t even known that she carried a weapon with her. When Rivera came running out of the edifice, still panting and breathless for the persecution that had taken place in the inside, Barbara was still in the same place where he had instructed her to stay. Close to the Lamborghini, eyes locked on the entrance door, and half hidden in the alleyway alongside the building. Even with the dim lights and the long distance, this position had provided her a very good angle, and fearing that the target might run away before they could catch up with him, Barbara had taken the shot. At least, this is what she told them.

Victor hadn’t been there to see her actually pulling the trigger. When he and the other Zsaszettes came out of the building, Rivera was already laying in the middle of the road; hands covering the gunshot wound that Barbara’s 22. Magnum had left on his chest, right bellow the collarbone. He had used his lasts breaths to throw insults at her; first in English, then in Spanish, and later, when Barbara grew tired of the not so clever verbal abuse and buried a chunky high heel into the bleeding injury, his speech morphed into something strange and incomprehensible that, they all agreed, didn’t mean anything. It had been a good shot; well timed, quick and right into the heart. Probably, it would have let Victor feeling most pleased if it weren’t because the _Penguin_ had asked them to bring this one alive.

He didn’t try to save the guy. Maybe he should have, but he didn’t. It was against his nature to help out someone so close to the other side (to help out anyone in general, truly) and even though he had always been quite good at controlling his emotions, Victor found that his internal battles were all the more difficult to fight whenever Barbara was involved. She wasn’t like the other Zsaszettes; all efficient and ruthless and disciplined. She was senseless, soulful and chaotic; ever floating in a sea of rage and shapeless emotions that made her seem unpredictable. This was, perhaps what had made him loose his composure so easily. Her influence. Her presence. That lack of self control that in the best moments was annoying, and in the worst ones, inciting.

“So, what do we do with this one, girls?” Victor found himself asking as he stepped closer to the Hispanic man. He stared at him for a few seconds (at the red-hot trail falling from the corners of his mouth, at the gushing wound swelling in the middle of his chest, at the shaking limbs that desperately tried to stand up and run away) and a flood of blood rushed into his heart. He knelt in front of Rivera, pressing the barrel of his gun against a trembling cheek, and felt great pleasure when his low whimpers morphed into a chilling squeal. “He’ll be cold already when we take him to the boss. Should we take care of him ourselves?” The man let out a pitiful sob, then, and feeling something primary and unknown suddenly take possession of him, Victor gripped the abandoned high heel and turned it around viciously.

He made the girls drag him towards a dark alley, where the dim glow of the streetlights wouldn’t attract bystanders, and as he pulled out a knife from the thin leather straps tied around his ankle, Victor seemed to forget all about the rules and restrictions that Don Falcone had so thoughtfully taught him over the last years.

He didn´t mind at the beginning (honestly, it didn’t even cross his mind) and as he thought back on it, Victor guessed he could blame Barbara for that. Blame her for looking so mysteriously pleased when he started to break Rivera’s fingers one by one, three times each of them; all the while screaming questions at him that he had previously known the man couldn’t answer. For holding the rebellious head with an unyielding grip when he began to peel the skin off his face, even when the blood began to spill all over her. For taking the knife from his hands without fear when he offered it, and plunging it over and over again into Rivera’s body with an excitement that could have even matched his.

Once they put the corpse in the trunk of the car, however, and started to drive towards the Iceberg Lounge (where the _Penguin_ was still waiting for them and a very much alive hostage) Victor had left the uneasiness slowly creep back to him. It was a sensation pricking in the back of his head, telling him that that no matter how much he had enjoyed it or how much dedication had been put into it, the contract he had just carried out had been a disaster. There wasn’t absolutely any type of structure in the crime he had just committed; no control or reasoning. Only thirst. Instinct. _Chaos._

Victor guessed, as he sat down on the chesterfield couch besides Barbara, that these sorts of things were part of the burden that comes with making a decision on your own. From the beginning, he had known that taking an Arkham ex-convict under his wing had been a hazardous, if not stupid move. His gut had told him to forget about her; leave her to drown in the world of hopeless panic that Gotham had turned into ever since the War of Gangs began, but impulsive as he was, Victor didn’t had the sense to hear himself out. Secretly, in a dark and hidden place where the Chief and his other girls couldn’t frown down at his stupidity, he had found certain pleasure in being the one who taught Barbara Kean how to kill human beings. In putting a gun on her hand and make her point it towards Gotham City’s felons, gangsters and guileless civilians. In making a murderer out of the woman who had once been Jim Gordon’s guiltless fiancé.

It had been a fixation. A whim, if you must call it that. Victor would be lying, however, if he said that it was a caprice born out of the moment. He had wanted Barbara from the beginning; since the first time he saw her, trembling like an autumn leaf in Don Falcone’s kitchen, waiting to face the consequences of a series of mistakes that hadn’t been her fault. His feelings towards her back then, thought, had been nowhere near as anodyne as they were now days.

He had entertained fantasies about strapping her to a chair and slowly cutting her body; about feeling her lukewarm blood slipping through his fingers in that close, personal way that he never got to experience when shooting down a target. He had wanted to see how much time it would take for him to make her scream; know who she would cry out for help, who she would curse; how she would beg or bargain, if she ever got to do it. He had wanted to know her in that way no one had ever known her before; learn what she feared and what she loved, and which buttons he had to push to make her fly off the handle. Drown in all those little sensations that cutting living flesh with a knife brought.

All these questions had been flowing through Victor’s head while he looked at her from the other side of the table, silently waiting for Don Falcone’s approval to go on with the job and take her downstairs. When his employer told Gordon that he was free to leave and that he could take his lovely fiancé back to her apartment, Victor had been so furious that he had been frighteningly close to defy his boss’ orders. In exchange of his services, he had been promised a life, and it was against the rules to take it from him like this. His good discipline, however, forced him to remain silent, and even when the hero cop and his girlfriend took their leave and he was left alone with his ever thoughtful employer, he didn’t utter a word against the final decision.

“I´m sorry, Victor.” The mob boss, still and all, seemed to know him better than he had first thought, and was able to tell that he wasn’t pleased with the outcome of this contract. “I know you had a thing for the girl.” He had said, with that old and tired voice that had been so characteristic of him during his last days as Don. Victor had meant to answer back (most probably to deny such absurd presumption) but the statement left him feeling conflicted, and in the end, he decided not to acknowledge it.

The sound of movement on the other side of the couch pulled him out of his thoughts, and as he turned his head around he caught the sight of Barbara leaning against the back of the couch, practically sinking into her seat. Her arms were tightly crossed above her chest and her thin red lips were turned downwards. “I really screwed this up, didn’t I?” She asked him, eyes stubbornly clued to the polished wooden floor. She seemed to be in some sort of despair. Or was it annoyance what she was feeling? Anger, maybe? Victor didn’t know. He had never been very good at sizing people up.

“Yes, you did.” He responded, shifting on the couch so he’ll be able to pull out the 9mm Taurus he still carried inside his jacket; then he proceeded to do the same with the two spare pistols he had hid under the waistband of his gabardine pants, and the bloody knife strapped to his ankle. He put all these items on the coffee table before him, close to Barbara’s Magnum, and tiredly leaned back on his seat. By the way she looked at him, Victor could tell that she wanted him to say something more; presumably to make her feel better. He remained silent, thought; resolute in his decision not to be outdone. Condescension was not good for structure; especially when one is still so poorly formed.

She seemed taken aback by this, as if she couldn’t understand what could have possibly soured his mood. “But… it’s all good?” She turned around to face him fully, placing her legs over the couch so they couldn’t touch the floor anymore. Her black high heels, still stained by the muddy water that always stalled in the downtown of the city, were left lying over the red carpet of the waiting room; slowly drying off. There was a slight smile tugging at Barbara’s lips now, and her sky blue eyes were once again glimmering with that childlike glee Victor had become so familiar with in the past few weeks. There was something wrong in that expression, thought; something off in the way her eyes shone. 

“Yes… it’s all good.” He said, staring at her closely; almost with suspicion. Barbara smiled widely and then turned to look away; seeming very pleased now that she knew that no one was angry at her. She didn’t even seem to mind that they were about to have a meeting with the most powerful man of Gotham City, and that the odds said that he was going to come out of it very angry. It dawned on Victor once again how little Barbara seemed to care about the _Penguin_ or the vastness of his Empire; how unafraid she was of him, in contrast to the blind panic that she used to feel at the mere sight of Don Falcone. Maybe because, not unlike him, she had meet Cobblepot when his name still wasn’t one to behold; when he was a common snitch that couldn’t even make a stand against _Fish Mooney,_ let alone the Alta Mafia of Gotham. He didn’t know whether he should feel proud of her bravery, or disappointed at her stupidity.

“Mr. Zsasz.” A voice called, and Victor turned his head around to look at Gabe, who was now standing in the doorway of the _Penguin’s_ office. His arms were crossed above his chest, making him look even bigger than he was, and the swollen dark circles around his eyes made him look burned out. He didn’t seem to be in a very good mood; perhaps the Chief was giving him trouble. Far from concerned, Victor stood up from his seat in a swift motion, wishing to be done with this matter quickly so he could go back to the apartment and get some sleep. Poorly done has it had been, the contract of the night had left him feeling rather tired. “Mr. Penguin would see you now.” Gabe said, and then stepped into the waiting room, gesturing for them to enter the office.

Barbara put on her black high heels again, grimacing at the grayish color the dirty streets had left on them, and at the red stain of blood that had been left when she stepped into Antonio Rivera’s heart. As always, she silently asked an arm for support before standing up, and although he was sure she didn’t actually need it, Victor offered his anyway. She had already learned that it was considered a rudeness to meet with a Don while being armed, so following his example, Barbara left her weapons behind. She had made the most of the time that he had been using to get lost in his thoughts, and although her black dress was still stained in that awful brown color that blood usually leaves once it’s dry, she had mostly removed the dark red spots that had been covering her face. The few remains had been carefully disguised with makeup.

She looked lovely. Almost harmless. Like one of those dainty high class girls who didn’t have the heart to kill a fly, and fainted at the mere sight of blood. It sure fooled Gabe, who sent her an almost pitiful look as they made their way into the office; Victor knew better than that, thought. He knew Barbara. Or at least the parts of her she had been willing to show him until now. If they were indeed her true nature, or if they were just an elaborated farce, created to imitate him and his peers, he couldn’t know. One thing was sure, thought. With or without structure, Barbara Kean was a reflection in a puddle for him; several features removed, indistinct, a cacophony of sheens and ripples that at first glance seemed shapeless, but when the water went still and the dirt dissipated, clearing out the surface, it was impossible not to recognize his own face.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Eyes On Fire, Blue Fundation.


End file.
